Oh so confused
by Mascalzone Latino
Summary: A certain Frenchman thinks about his partner in crime sort of slashy, maybe?


__

A/N: All WWE superstars mentioned in this piece of fiction are the property of the WWE; however, their souls may belong to me. I am writing this purely for pleasure, not profit. Hell, if you sue me, you won't get a lot.

I heard the flag pole hit René on the head and I cringed. It was a sickening blow and looked it on various television replays.

As he was so unsteady on his feet, it was easy for Bubba Dudley to do a Bubba bomb and claim the victory over my tag team partner.

René got up gingerly and, as I got closer to him, I could see that he had been busted open by the flag pole shot - blood was streaming down his face. He was cursing but in no condition whatsoever to exact revenge on D-Von for the flag shot.

I helped him to the back and had to wait while he was attended to - having the blood cleaned up, the blood flow stemmed and, finally, stitches inserted into the wound. He ended up with nine stitches. Nine stitches and a flaming sore head afterwards.

René was hell-bent on revenge but I told him that it was best to wait - he may have suffered concussion and besides, wouldn't it be best if we leave the Dudleys to wonder when and how we would retaliate?

He was still somewhat unstable on his feet so I had to literally help him to our hotel room. Once in there, he collapsed onto his bed and took the painkillers the doctor had given him. In no time at all, he was asleep.

I simply left him where he laid on his bed and covered him with a blanket, gazing at him as I did so.

I knew exactly how René would retaliate and possibly when. If he wanted to retaliate tomorrow, there would be no way I'd allow that. I'd let him and the Dudleys wait. I'm not called Sly for nothing, you know.

In a way, I felt responsible for René being smacked on the head with the Tricolour. I was the one who slid it into the ring for René to use. I was the one who knocked him to his back when he tried to hit D-Von with it. I was the one who got thrown out of the ring. René was the one who wore the Tricolour on his head. René was the one who ended up with nine stitches. René was the one who ended up with a monstrous headache.

Yes, if you want me to admit that I brought this upon René by sliding the French flag into the ring then I admit it. I, Sylvan Grenier, the No Way Out screw job referee, brought this upon my tag team partner.

It's not a good feeling at all. You do something that is meant to benefit your team only for it to backfire. Such is life in the WWE.

I should've known that something like that would happen. Especially when your tag team partner's opponent that night belongs to a tag team that you're currently feuding with.

I want to tell him that I'm sorry for what's happened tonight. But he's sleeping and, if I wake him, I will be lucky to see the next morning. I should be getting some sleep myself, like René is now, but I can't.

Every time I close my eyes, I see the blood on his face. I see him unsteady on his feet. I see him cursing. I see … him.

Without him, I wouldn't be anything, really. I wouldn't be half of the World Tag Team champions. I wouldn't be out in the ring every week, showing my disrespect for the United States, as only a Frenchman would. As only 99.9% of the world would show it. By ripping the American flag from the pole. By laying it on Americans. By spitting on it - not that we would do that sort of thing.

Without René Dupree, I would be nothing. Plain and simple.

He's going to have a great future in the WWE but I'm not so sure about myself. When people see me, they either see Sylvan Grenier, the guy who screwed the legendary Hulk Hogan in Montreal at No Way Out or Sylvan Grenier, member of La Résistance. They don't see Sylvan Grenier, the regular guy. They see what they want to see.

I am content with who I am and where I'm at at the moment but who knows? Maybe I'll find I'll lose interest in the sports entertainment industry. Maybe I'll find I'll lose interest in René.

But I don't want to lose interest in him just yet. No, that wouldn't be fair on him. We still have a mission to complete.

My main mission at the moment isn't to prove that the French are superior to the Americans in every way - it's to try and sleep tonight, just as René is doing now.

He looks peaceful, despite the large welt on his head. Despite the stitches. All curled up with some major healing going on.

I just want to look at him all night long. Take care of him as only a tag team partner would. Hell, I just want to take care of him, period. Is that too much to want? 

What would I know?

By thinking about what's happened tonight to René, I've gotten myself a little confused which isn't good.

I'm content with myself. I'm content with René. I'm content with the path my life is taking at the moment. I'm content with having the world tag team belts - one of them anyway.

But, if something really bad happened to René, I honestly wouldn't know where I'd be. Who I'd be.

He's a part of me now, just like I'm a part of him. If you see me, you see the two of us. If you see him, you see the two of us.

René, do you have the slightest idea what you're doing to me?


End file.
